


The Spirit of Foretelling

by Katalyna_Rose



Series: Vhenan and Associated Stories (Lyna Lavellan) [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon, Uthenera, Very Lightly Solavellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 16:12:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11165412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katalyna_Rose/pseuds/Katalyna_Rose
Summary: Wandering, waiting, watching in the dreaming. He searches and seeks and sees what can be seen. Uthenera, the endless dream, waiting to wake and always wandering. The Dread Wolf is welcome in the forgotten places, forgotten spirits wanting to be seen, seeing. The future is meant to be shared.





	The Spirit of Foretelling

Solas gasped and halted in his tracks as he saw the wonder he had stumbled upon in this far corner of the Fade. Before him was a labyrinth of walls covered in murals of varying styles and mediums, from the pigment and plaster fresco that he had loved so much before uthenera to simple paint directly on the stone to mosaics of glass. He could not see far within, only to the first turn, and he wondered what would lie at the center if he should venture within. With a grin, he stepped onto the path, knowing it could take him years to find the way through.

And it did. He studied each mural he passed, moving so slowly that he would spend months in a single stretch of the maze. But he didn’t mind. He had all the time in the world. Each mural depicted a different scene from history, beautifully wrought and designed. Many of them were familiar, but many of them were not quite what he remembered learning of. Some of them were even of scenes he had witnessed with his own two eyes, but some of these were altered as well. He wasn’t sure what to make of it all. Some of the scenes as he ventured further and further in were of events that he had only witnessed in the Fade since falling into the endless dream and he began to wonder who built the halls he now traveled.

He was alone for many years, no spirits except for a few wisps too small to have consciousness and no other dreamers this far into the forgotten places. It gave him time to contemplate on each of the murals he witnessed, wondering about the changes in some of the scenes. Some of them would be side by side, the event as it had happened and the altered version on connected panels of the wall. Sometimes the alterations were small, the events happening during the day instead of at night. Sometimes they were large, the opposing force who should have lost the battle standing victorious at the end. All of them were fascinating.

“This way, wolf,” a small voice whispered to him as he was studying a tower in a ruin that stretched up to the sky, the beacon of fire at the top unheeded by the monsters clashing with men far below. He turned towards the sound but saw no one and nothing. “Come this way,” the voice whispered again. Frowning, curious, he followed.

He came to a fork in the path, unsure which way to go. “Here, come here,” the helpful voice supplied. He followed it, wondering if it meant to harm or help him but unafraid of either eventuality.

The room that the paths of the labyrinth opened out to was approximately the size of a grand ballroom, the walls there twice as tall as those in the hallways leading there. And the murals were different, painted in a style he knew, remembered. They were his own work, pigment and plaster over stone, but only some of them were those he remembered painting. Many of them he did not recognize at all. He drew near to one, the image of a woman with long cream colored hair, her arms spread out beside her in welcome or supplication, her face bare of Vallaslin. Her dress was Elvhen but of a slightly different cut, and she was lovely, high cheekbones and a small chin. He wished her eyes were open. The mural was painted with such love and longing and loss that it made him want to weep even though he did not recognize the woman apparently painted with his own hands.

“She calls to you even now, wolf,” the whispery voice observed. He spun and saw a spirit standing in the center of the room. It glowed bright yellow, the edges of its form curling away and dissipating in the air like flares from the sun. It was neither male nor female, though it seemed to have elven ears sticking out from its head. He approached slowly, cautiously, its features obscured by the brightness of its form. He could not guess its purpose.

“Who are you?” he asked curiously.

“I am that which shall come to pass, all that may be,” it told him cryptically, but he understood. He froze and gaped in awe.

“A spirit of Foretelling,” he whispered reverently. “I have heard of your kind but only in legends. I did not believe they were true.”

Sadness tinged its voice, though he still could not see past the vibrancy of its form. “We are precious few now,” it told him. “Once, long ago, mortals who thought too much of themselves bound my brethren into servitude. But no one may own the future, and so they were corrupted with the binding into Deceit. Quickly, their masters destroyed them for their lies, for being led astray. I know not how many remain, but most of us are gone.”

“If you know the future, could your brethren not have foreseen their demise and prevented it?” Solas asked the spirit.

“No, little wolf,” it told him wistfully. “No one, not even one such as me, may know the moment of their death. They did not see what end would come to them and so they could not prevent it.”

“These murals,” he continued, gesturing around the room, “they are yours?”

Amusement tinged its voice. “They are yours, little wolf. You know that.”

“But I have not made them all,” he protested.

“And I see all that may come to pass.”

“Then…” He looked again at the woman, one who seemed to appear in several of the murals on that part of the room. “They are murals I have yet to create?”

“Indeed, little wolf,” it confirmed. “It is fascinating how you are drawn there.”

“Who is she?” he asked, not looking away.

“On who may become important,” it told him. A mural not far away suddenly glowed, drawing his attention, and he saw the same woman, bowed, darkened, broken, bleeding on a battlefield. “Or perhaps one who may be destroyed by your mistakes.”

“Why have you drawn me here?” he asked, turning back to the spirit.

“You found me on your own,” it told him. “You have wandered this place for decades now, my home. But if you continued down that hallway you were in, you would see something you are not meant to see, not yet. I drew you away from a worse fate.”

“If I knew I was trespassing-“ he began, but the spirit cut him off.

“You are not,” it told him easily. “I enjoy company when it means no harm to me or mine. My home has always been open to any who would seek me. Yet with one such as you, I must be cautious. So much depends on you, on what choices you will make.”

“That’s why some of the murals are altered,” he said, understanding all at once. “They are from a future that did not come to pass, when a choice was made differently.”

Foretelling inclined its head, and he realized that at some point during the conversation the brightness of its form was pulled in and contained until he could see that the spirit appeared feminine. It had a slim waist, the build of the Elvhen though smaller in stature than he was accustomed to, and high, pert breasts. “I see all that may be and sometimes what I record does not happen as I have recorded it. Such is the way of it when attempting to write down the future; sometimes I get it wrong, choose the wrong eventuality.”

“Your home is beautiful and fascinating,” he told it sincerely, bowing to the spirit. Its form vibrated slightly with pleasure.

“It is good to share it once more,” it told him. “Yet I have drawn you here, to the heart of yourself, not only to take you away from what you should not see but also to give you a warning. Your future may be dark, little wolf, but it does not have to be. There is a path you could take, if you are open to the possibility, that would lead you and your people to happiness and prosperity. If you choose the way of blood, that is all you will ever have, all that your people will ever know. Yet if you open your heart to her and allow her to change you, what you will find will be worth all the uncertainty of baring yourself to one such as her.” All at once, her form condensed, the golden light of a sun fading into the coloring of one of the People. Before him stood the woman from the mural, a pale, slim, petite woman with small ears, wide violet eyes, and cream colored hair in gentle curls to her waist. She smiled and approached, her lips full and pink and delectable, her body draped in thin silk that clung to every curve and edged in amethysts and diamonds, a slit up the side of her skirt revealing a toned and muscular leg. Her arms were those of an archer, muscles lithe and wiry, thick at the shoulders. She walked right up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning up on her toes to kiss his chin.

“Let me into your heart, Solas,” she murmured, a woman’s voice, low and husky and laced with magic that shivered through him, her accent unlike anything he had ever heard. “Let me show you a better path.”

“Who are you?” he asked the phantom, vaguely aware that his arms were wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer against his will.

“You will know me, once you wake,” the spirit told him, smiling softly. “I will shake your perception, everything you know to be true. Let it crumble, Solas. Find the humility to accept that you do not know everything, that even one as young as me might have more answers than you can find. Let me into your heart, Solas, and do not turn me away.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, then frowned and blinked. He was standing in a part of the Fade he knew well, the edge of Wisdom’s domain. Her books and scrolls were scattered about his feet. He turned to look behind him, certain that he had just been speaking to someone, but no one was there. The last thing he remembered was wandering a labyrinth of murals, images both recent and ancient, but he couldn’t remember why he left. Had he found the end, or simply gotten bored with it? The first option seemed more likely, but he couldn’t remember coming out the other side or making the decision to return to Wisdom.

He shook his head, picking his way carefully among the books strewn in his path, knowing how Wisdom would lose her temper if he stepped on them or disrupted her careful disorder. He was growing addled the longer he remained in this dream, but he knew he could not wake up yet. His body was still too weak to wake, so he would have to remain still. But he wondered, as he smiled a greeting to Wisdom, how much longer it would be. Perhaps he should turn his gaze to the world he’d left behind rather than exploring ancient memories and forgotten places. Wisdom would have some insight for him, he was certain.

**Author's Note:**

> I freaking love the concept of uthenera and what Solas may or may not have been doing during that time.


End file.
